I am the cook
by bluewonderer
Summary: They're gone and it's your fault. You're more nothing than anything, empty and becoming emptier. The last thing you want to do is eat. Unfortunately, the last thing the rude young man wants to do is let you have your way.
Trees as tall as skyscrapers. Sand as fine as silk, the softest you've ever felt. An inky blue ocean with gleaming starlight dancing on its surface.

It's fantastic but you don't care and you don't care that you don't care.

 _They're gone._

The stars are bright, an arching cartography etched in the black velvet sky. You know there are so many worlds and people and lives and _crazy wonderful beautiful things_ swirling around each and every one of the shining, distant suns.

 _They're gone._ A whole world gone. _Your_ world gone. And it's your fault. _You did this._ And so you don't care about _crazy wonderful beautiful things_.

You wish you'd died with them. You were _supposed to die with them_.

You lean against the Tardis ( _she picked you up and carried you away, even though you left her and walked for miles and miles through the hot desert because you didn't want her to see what you did and the choices you made_ ) and you'd cry if you weren't so empty.

There's a sudden spray of sand on the back of your wrist and fingers. You look down to see a boot next to your hip. You watch the grains of sand slide off the toe, and the moon reflects on the smooth leather like a grin. You hear the _snick_ of a lighter. Smell the acrid sweet smell of smoke.

"Well, well. Shitty Old Man," a deep voice says, breathy on an exhale.

The Tardis almost seems to sigh in relief, which is a weird thought for you to think. Even for you.

You take a long blink.

You wake up slumped on a bench instead of impossibly soft sand with your face glued by your sweat onto a wooden table. The Tardis is no longer propping you up and your back seems to weaken at her absence. You smell the sea and the wood and feel the sway and you know you're on a boat—maybe a ship.

There's also the smell of cooking. Thick grease and lightly spun sugar odors that make you dizzy.

"Drink," a voice commands, familiar, and you remember cigarette smoke and moonlight grinning on a leather boot. You hate that you don't even feel curious, you don't even ask yourself _what?_ and _why am I on a ship?_ and _how did he carry me?_ You just _did_ ask yourself these things, you suppose, but you don't really care for the answers. You think this is possibly the worst regeneration ever, the worst case of being _you_ and yet being a stranger to yourself.

You think the regeneration is probably not the problem.

"Drink," the voice says again, more irritated, and your eyes find a glass with a pale blue liquid. It's cool to the touch and you wonder what you're _doing_ and _why you don't even care about what's in the glass_ even as the liquid passes by your lips. You taste something like medicine in it, but its mostly fruity.

"Courtesy of our doctor. That should help," the voice says and you follow the expanse of the table to a kitchen galley that's a little big for most sea-faring boats you've seen. There's a man cooking and he looks as young as his voice. Tall and lanky in tailored trousers with a button up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His back is to you but you see the interplay of muscles in his forearms as he flips a ridiculously large skillet with one hand and stirs an equally large pot with the other.

Heavy and empty and raw and _angry_ , you move to get up. To leave. To find the Tardis and _run_ and disappear into the _nothing_ inside of you. You're not sure if that's possible but you're going to try.

"Sit the fuck _down_." The man growls, finally bothering to glance over his shoulder with a look that's older than his face ( _you would know_ ). There's a petulant pinch to his lips but his eyes are a steely flint that takes you by surprise.

You sit down without another thought. "Where-?"

"Your ship's outside on the deck."

You frown, patting your jacket for the shape of a key, wondering if you left the Tardis unlocked and vulnerable. You think this is a human and this is a human ship and it doesn't _smell_ or _taste_ like a particularly advanced time period so how does a human know that a little blue box is your ship?

"My captain set sail in a _wine barrel_ once," the blond young man says, eyeing you while deftly flipping the skillet and stirring a pot without looking. You wonder if you're talking aloud without realizing it. You do that, sometimes. His gaze lingers until something he sees in your face (framed by your _frankly ginormous_ ears) seems to satisfy him, though you can't possibly imagine what that could be. He turns away, huffing.

You think about asking him what he wants, why he won't let you leave, why you're on a ship and what the ship is _for_. But those thoughts extinguish apathetically as soon as they form.

And then there's a bowl of soup in front of you, sloshing but not spilling, spoon sliding along the curve. You blink at it, dumbfounded by its sudden appearance. The young man is still across the room, back turned, pulling out the biggest and brightest vegetables you've ever seen. He dices the vegetables blindingly fast before tossing them carefully into the skillet.

"Eat."

You're empty and full at the same time, uncomfortable in your own skin, and the thought of food makes your tongue swell and your stomach sour and your hearts stutter. You find yourself staring into the bowl. You see thin, delicate slices of meat. Hearty cuts of vegetables. It smells… thick. Savory. Filling. You watch the lights reflect in the liquid.

"Old Man," the young man says and you look up, startled, to find him standing across the table, cradling a large mixing bowl with sweet-smelling white batter in one arm. He's scowling down at you, but you can't help but see something inexplicably soft in the slump of his posture and the tilt of his mouth.

"You're hungry."

You shake your head. "I'm really not." You're pretty sure, anyway. You're empty, made up of more nothing than anything. But you're not hungry and you don't want to eat.

"Yes, you are." A pause. "I'm the cook," he says in that simple and encompassing way you might have said _I'm the Doctor_. "I know when people are hungry. I know when they want to eat and I know when they _need_ to eat."

You're as stubborn and immovable as always as you stare at him (you actually hate that about yourself, especially now).

"I'm the cook," he repeats, tossing his hair so he stares stubbornly right back at you with both of his eyes. "I'll feed anyone I meet who is hungry. Friend or enemy. It's a promise to my captain, to that shitty old chef, to myself, and to the whole wide fucking world."

You blink up at him, and you _see_ the ripples of time and space perched on this man's shoulders like a veritable thing that stares back at you. The young man holds your gaze before turning away, diligently whisking the batter in his bowl.

"Eat."

In only a few minutes, the cook will leave for another part of the ship and you'll make a hasty departure. The bowl you leave behind will be empty but you'll be strangely... _less_ empty. You'll be more Doctor than you were an hour ago.

And then, sooner than you think, there'll be another human with blonde hair. She'll look up at you with wide eyes and lips as full and pink as a rose. She'll hold your hand and all of sudden you'll remember light spices, salty meat, the subtle sweetness in firm vegetables. You'll be less empty and a little more Doctor that day and the days after. You'll _grin_ down at her. And once you remember, you won't forget the taste of the soup you had on a mysterious boat with a rude cook determined to feed _"the whole wide fucking world"_.

All of that and more begins in a few minutes. For now, you pick up the spoon. You bring the broth to your lips.

And you eat.


End file.
